Sacrifices a Hero Makes
by TheMusicManiac
Summary: America doesn't want to be called fat, so he decides to hold a contest with himself.


Author's Notes: Hey! I've read quite a few Anorexic America one shots and... decided to write my own! It originally ended at the asterisks, but my friends who edited it thought that he died or something sooooo... yeah. We can't have that! We all know the generally accepted head canon that nations can't kill themselves, and I follow that :) Enjoy and review any suggestions :)

How long can someone go without eating? A day? A week? A month? I wonder...

And that's how it happened.

They call me fat. It's not like there wasn't truth in the statement, I mean, look at the obesity rates in the country. But I was pretty fit, wasn't I?

No one answered but the voice in my head:

_When was the last time you ate something HEALTHY?_

I didn't remember. My cheeseburger had lettuce...

_Maybe you could afford to lay off a few Big Macs, don't you think? Eat a SALAD maybe?_

Well, that's true. It couldn't be that hard.

So I did. I ate healthy things, like vegetables. What else did I eat? I can't remember… Just salads. I got kind of tired of it. When I looked in the mirror, I noticed my ribs sticking out ever so slightly. Damn, I needed to get some meat on those bones…

_Don't eat more, you idiot! You'll gain back all you've lost, and you don't want that. You want to be seen as the strong, proud hero, not the lazy, unhealthy pathetic nation on the brink of extinction, right?_

Pulling on my shirt, I agreed with the voice.

But the less I ate, the worse I felt. I lost weight, yes, but what did that matter? I was still the fat, arrogant, naïve country that everyone hated. At meetings, I got weird looks and I couldn't figure out why. It made me want to curl up in my huge sweatshirt that I wore and hide from their gazes. They must be thinking about how stupid I am… Then I began to wonder how long I could go without eating at all.

My first day wasn't all that hard. I just ignored the casual growling. The second wasn't much different, and neither was the third. By the fourth I felt like I sinking, drowning, in an ocean of numbness that I couldn't bear to feel. No emotions seemed to reach me, and any laughter that escaped me wasn't real. The fifth day I wanted to eat something when I was offered it but I lied and said I'd already eaten. The sixth day was miserable, my stomach wouldn't shut up.

Then came the seventh day. Sunday. The last day of the week.

All day long I thought, "I'm proud of myself, I beat my own goal! Maybe I can set a record…" But then I got home late from a meeting. My coat got thrown on the couch and I looked at the clock on the stove. Seven thirty. Damn, I'm more tired than I have been all week. Crashing on the bed immediately after closing the bedroom door, I closed my eyes.

My stomach growled, angry at me. What was it mad for, I was doing this for the best! It didn't seem to care. I curled up in a ball, hugging my torso fiercely to stop the thunder inside. A thought flashed like lightning:

I can feel my bones. Even through my shirt, I can FEEL them. I could count all of my ribs by the touch of my fingertips.

My eyes widened. Then comes the rain… I'm too weak physically to hold back the sobs that shake me; the pain is too much. Damnit, I was hungry, I'd never been so hungry in my life. But I didn't deserve to eat when other kids starved; I didn't deserve to eat food that didn't cost me anything when others had to pay dearly for crumbs.

The desire was too much. I rose shakily and slowly, swaying dangerously like a drunk man. I made my way to the kitchen and opening the fridge. There wasn't really anything there. I picked up a loaf of white bread and just stared at it. This looked… disgusting. I threw it back in the fridge and slammed the door so I wouldn't puke on the floor. How could I eat; nothing looked REMOTELY appetizing!

My phone buzzed wildly on the table in the other room. Walking like a zombie over to it to see, I saw my brother's name and picture staring up at me. I declined the call then noticed his texts from not too long ago.

"Hello? Alfred? You looked really sick at the meeting today. Do you want me to bring you something?

Hello?

Al?

Answer your phone!"

Thunder boomed inside and I wanted to scream at the world. Damn it, damn it, damn you, Mattie, why do you have to be so nice?! The tears ran down freely; I couldn't reply and honestly didn't want to.

Just then the doorbell rang. My thoughts depressed and sluggish, I set down the phone and stumbled to the door, wiping my eyes.

It was Matthew. Of course, right when I COULDN'T see him.

"Alfred!" He gasped and covered his mouth.

Crap, crap, crap, I made him worry… My own vision blurred with tears as I lost the strength to stand, collapsing into his open arms. It was hard to breathe and I was losing consciousness.

"Al? Al? ALFRED!"

I remembered nothing else afterwards.

When I woke up, I heard a faint beeping and saw a white ceiling above me. Looking down, there was my body, covered in white. The blanket was like snow, but warm because of my body heat. I was surprised I had any. On my hands were IV strips and such, but the hands seemed a bit bony. How long had I been here? I coughed, happy somewhat to be able to breathe. Then I heard another soft sound beside me on my left: quiet sobs and irregular breathing.

I turned my head. There was Canada, crying as predicted in his hands.

"M-Mattie…" I rasped to get his attention.

His head shot up and I grimaced at his worried, tear-streaked face. "Al, you're awake! Thank goodness, thank God…"

"Why?" The shockingly familiar British accent reached my ears and I turned to see England standing solemn as ever at the end of my bed.

"Arthur, don't question him right now—"

"Nah, s'okay. There's no reason to push down the questions. You've always been straight-to-the-point anyway, so I'm not surprised."

He locked me in his stern green gaze, but he seemed to let slip a glimpse of concern and worry. "Why did you do it?"

I thought before answering. "Because… 'cause… 'cause I wanted to know how long I could last without food."

"You bloody idiot, was THAT the ONLY reason?!"

"No! Maybe because you all called me fat and stupid, maybe because my country is failing, maybe because I was sad, maybe it's all of it!" I snapped, yelling when my voice was already shot, which ended in coughing. I felt like beating myself. They were worried, damnit! The reasons were stupid; this whole thing was stupid.

"Damn you, why didn't you tell someone? If you'd just said how you felt… We might not have joked so hard and reduced you to a skeleton!" The older nation held his forehead like a sign of exasperation, but his shoulders were trembling. I felt Matthew take my hand.

"You worried us so much… Why didn't you say anything? I'm your brother, you should have at least told me!" His soft voice was hardly one for scolding, but his words cut into me like the knife of a serial killer.

"I never wanted this… No, I never wanted you to see this…"

"But don't you see, Al? We can help you! We can help you work through this anorexia, we can. Please let us."

England wouldn't look at me, seeming to be fascinated with whatever was outside the window. His face was a little redder and his eyes a bit wetter than before, or was it my imagination?

I was silent as Matthew stared me down, waiting for a reply to his pleas. How could I be so selfish and reckless and STUPID to let them see my inner helplessness and depression, my filthiness? Now there was no choice, it seemed, but to let them in.

"I… guess."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "You know, I shouldn't have to ask you to let me help. You can confide in me, you know."

"I know. Sometimes… I just don't want you to see this side of me. I don't know how to fix this.

"Journals."

"What?" Arthur had spoken the word so abruptly.

"Journal. You should keep one. It's good when you don't want to talk to anyone." He still wouldn't look at me as he gave the advice curtly. It wasn't bad advice, but I wasn't sure I'd follow it.

"Yeah, that's a good idea. I could go get one for you, eh? Come on, if you can't tell ME what's going on, maybe you can tell the paper."

I thought. "What the hell, I guess. Couldn't hurt."

When I looked over, Canada was smiling. It was contagious, and I smiled too, even until I laughed. I laughed so hard that it was difficult to breathe, and it brought tears to my eyes. It was a long road to recovery, but at least I wouldn't be alone.


End file.
